Chapter 2: The Empty Lawn
The string quartet transitioned into a sprightly Mozart minuet that felt entirely absurd against the heavy silence pressing inside my ribs. I kept my eyes fixed on the dark patch of grass beneath the oak tree, my fingernails digging into my palms through the velvet of my skirt. The man in the black suit remained as still as a carved headstone, his silhouette cutting a sharp, impossible line against the manicured boxwoods.
"Eleanor? Mother, are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost," Robert said, his hand appearing on my shoulder with the casual warmth of a dutiful son.
I flinched, a sharp intake of breath escaping my lips before I managed to plaster a thin, brittle smile across my face. I slipped the silver band into the small velvet pocket sewn into the lining of my gown.
"Just a sudden chill, Robert," I replied, my voice remarkably steady given the storm raging in my chest. "The air conditioning from the terrace doors is quite sharp tonight."
"Let me get you a glass of water," he said, turning to signal a passing waiter in a white tuxedo jacket.
The moment Robert’s attention drifted toward the silver tray, I took two measured steps past the velvet drapery and pushed open the heavy glass exit. The night air rushed in, smelling of damp earth, freshly cut Bermuda grass, and the faint, sweet trace of old rain. It was the exact smell of May 14, 1968. I stepped out onto the flagstone terrace, my low heels clicking softly against the stone.
The terrace was empty. The wrought-iron tables with their flickering candles cast long, distorted shadows across the paving stones, but the garden paths stretching out toward the duck pond were vacant. I walked to the stone balustrade, leaning over the cold railing to peer down into the shadows of the oak tree where he had been standing only moments before.
Nothing. Just the wind rustling the new leaves overhead and the distant hum of traffic from the highway half a mile away.
"Looking for someone, Mrs. Vance?"
I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat. The young head gardener, a boy named Leo whose name I barely remembered, stood near the terrace steps holding a coiled rubber hose. His uniform shirt was damp at the collar, and his eyes were wide with polite deference.
"I thought I saw... an intruder," I said, catching my breath and smoothing the front of my dress with hands that refused to stop trembling. "A man. Standing near the old oak."
Leo frowned, scratching the back of his neck as he looked out into the gloom. "No, ma'am. Not out here. I've been down by the pump house all evening clearing a clogged sprinkler line. Didn't see a soul come past the gates. Security hasn't buzzed anyone through either; the perimeter sensors are green."
May you like
I nodded slowly, the logic of his words failing to soothe the hollow dread expanding in my stomach. As Leo turned back to his hose, something small and metallic glinted on the flagstone right where the old man’s shoes should have been standing.
I stepped forward, my gown whispering against the stone, and knelt with a stiffness in my knees that age had kindly gifted me. Lying on the damp ground was a vintage silver fountain pen with a worn tortoise-shell cap. I picked it up. The metal was cold to the touch. I didn't need to unscrew the cap to know whose initials were stamped on the pocket clip.
